Enigma
by norafares
Summary: The war has changed Hermione Granger. When she returns to Hogwarts to complete her education she is a bitter person, broken by the memories that haunt her and marked by the scars that define her. In the course of one school year, she learns that the greatest lessons are the ones in forgiveness, patience and love — taught by none other than Draco Malfoy. - Hiatus/WIP
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Writing this story has been an emotional ride. This story focuses on human emotion, bringing light to weaknesses, heartache, and mental illness. If you have triggers for depression, this story may not be for you. The M rating is for adult themes, sexual acts, and strong language. Please let this serve as your warning and continue at your own discretion.**

 **Strap in your seatbelts and get ready for some young adult angst! Reviews and constructive criticism greatly appreciated :')**

 **-Nora**

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The Hogwarts Express would leave Platform 9 3/4 without fail September First at eleven o'clock in the morning and this year a young witch with unruly brown hair and a trunk full of books wasn't missing it. She'd come to the platform with her trolley pushed by a tall, lanky redheaded young man that argued with her the whole way there, his knuckles white as he gripped the handlebar. He talked of glory, of security, and fame. But mostly, he talked of a guaranteed job at the Ministry of Magic.

"Honestly, what is the point in going back, Hermione? What's there left to learn? We defeated the darkest wizard of our time! We're heroes!" he exclaimed, turning a little red as a group of First Years gaped at him. "We can be Aurors," he said, lowering his voice.

"That's just it, Ron! I don't _want_ to be an Auror," Hermione snapped, skidding to a stop and giving him a push with her shoulder. She took the trolley from him, huffing over to the conductor who was charming trunks into the train.

He followed her, ducking his head as if it would help to mask his identity. Now that he was famous he had realized over the last few months that Harry had been right — there was nothing substantially appealing in being stared at everywhere he went. A group of girls pointed at him as he passed, _oohing_ and _ahhing_ as he groaned and quickened his step. Why had he ever envied this?

"Hermione," he called, watching as she stood with her scarf billowing in the wind, the train steam puffing around her, making her look quite like an angel. She turned and scowled at him.

"Right," he said to himself. "Definitely no angel."

He approached her, taking her gently by the elbow to pull her aside.

"I'm going, Ron. I've already made up my mind."

"Alright," he said, sighing. "I guess I just thought that now was our time, you know? We never got a chance to make this work, Hermione. A noseless evil git was constantly keeping us on our toes."

If Hermione found his comment funny, she did not seem to show it. She kept that frown, looking determined as ever. It hadn't surprised him when she'd announced her plans to return to Hogwarts — he expected nothing less from her. Still, some small part of him had _hoped_ that she'd stay by his side to hunt dark wizards across the country. He'd let himself dream about a future that would never be — a future in which Hermione Granger would belong to him. But Ron had known it inside his heart since that first impassioned kiss during the battle of Hogwarts. She just wanted so much more than he could ever give her. She was too bright, too brilliant and ambitious to be tied down to a fool like him. Just as he knew that his work with the Ministry would take him to every corner of the country, he knew that Hermione's drive to discover the secrets of the universe would take her to the very ends of it.

"That's exactly why I need to go back," she said, her tone softer than he'd expected. "I can finally study in peace and pursue my dreams, Ron."

The conductor blew his whistle.

Ron felt as if he had a very hard sweet in his throat, one that he couldn't swallow away. "Am I in your dreams?" he asked her, his voice shakier than he'd intended.

"Oh, Ron," Hermione said, bringing a hand to touch his cheek. "Of _course_ you are. We'll write every day. And you can Floo to Hogsemeade, just as we planned. We won't really be apart."

Ron brought up his hand to grip hers, closing his eyes to hide the wild terror that was spiking through him. He held back the tears, held back the feelings that were destroying him. This was goodbye. Neither wanted to admit it, but they both seemed to know.

Hermione shifted her weight to her toes, straining to press her lips to his. He sensed what she was trying to do and bent his knees, catching her lips with his in a kiss that seemed to make his chest ache. _I'll miss you_ , he tried to show her. _Stay. I love you._

The conductor blew his whistle again, a final notice.

"Right, Hermione," Ron said, pulling away and opening his eyes. Red rimmed his crystal blue irises. "Go on, chase your dreams," he said, releasing her hand and taking a step back.

The train began to move, chugging slowly to leave the station.

"I'll write," Hermione said, turning from him and making a run for the train. She climbed the steps quickly, gripped the doorway and turned to give Ron one last wave goodbye.

But he was already gone.

Hermione turned and sighed, taking a moment to breathe in the rushing air, cold as ice in her lungs. The wind seemed to jolt her to life, bringing to life the bittersweet feeling of returning to her seventh and final year of her magical education. Her mind had been made up long before McGonagall had written to her, requesting her as a pupil one final time. Though the castle had been mostly repaired, the school was still severely understaffed. Her Head Girl pin was deep in her pocket, fulfilling a personal goal she had had for as long as she could remember. Officially she would be Head Girl, but unofficially she would be McGonagall's right-hand woman. It was an empowering thought.

With only a handful of returning Seventh Years, her classes would be small, personalized and more difficult than any she had taken before. After a summer of grieving for the dead and doing altogether nothing else at all, she was ready to be challenged again. In fact, she'd looked forward to it so much that it had taken a great deal of restraint to hide her excitement from Ron.

"Auror indeed," she muttered, making her way slowly through the train to find an empty compartment. A door flew open as she passed it, the head of a familiar boy peeking out to greet her with a brilliant smile.

"Hermione, in here," he said, waving her over.

She turned, smiling at the face of a boy who had once been plump, shy and timid. Now he was taller, slimmed down and rather good-looking. He was, after all, a hero of his own class.

"Neville," she said, smiling warmly. "What are you doing here?"

"Redoing my Seventh Year," he said, stepping aside to let her in. "Couldn't've learned much hiding out in the Room of Requirement last year, could I?"

Hermione was sure that he wouldn't be the only one returning. She stepped into the compartment and was greeted by the dazed face of Luna Lovegood. A recent copy of the Quibbler was clutched in her hands, a familiar pair of silly earrings hung from her ears. _To ward off the nargles,_ Hermione thought to herself, smirking as she sank into a seat by the window.

"I was sure you'd come," Luna said, licking a finger to turn a page on her magazine.

"Ten points to Ravenclaw," Hermione said, returning the wide smile that Luna gave her.

"Ginny's back too," Luna said thoughtfully. "I think she's in the Prefect's compartment."

Neville slid the door closed, turning with a small smile.

"Just saw Hannah pass by," he said, running a hand nervously through his hair.

"Hannah Abbott?" Luna asked, glancing at him. "She's sweet on you, you know."

Hermione turned to the window, resting her chin gingerly on her hand as she listened to her friends. The English countryside whizzed by, beautifully green and rich in the late summer sun. Her thoughts lingered on the quaint towns, the rural farmlands. How nice it must be to lead such a simple life, working only to get from one day to the next. Her life had always been complicated, partly because of her friendship with Harry Potter, but mostly because her spirit was always anxious, always itching to push her to be the best at all she pursued. This year would be no different. This was her seventh ride to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, her seventh year of potions, magical creatures, ancient runes and midnight astronomy classes in which she could peer through a telescope to see the expanse of the undiscovered universe before her. She looked forward to long days in the library, taking in the musky smell of old books with dust motes floating all around her, visible only in the sunlight that shone through the windows. Everything about it all was so familiar that she knew she should feel a little comforted, as if things could finally return to normal. It certainly looked as if nothing had changed at all.

And yet, everything _had_ changed. Her best friends were far away from her now, back in London where they would lead exciting lives as Aurors, all the while she would bury her nose in books at Hogwarts. Friends she had cherished, loved, and admired had died. Their absence left such an emptiness in her that it ached every single day. Her parents were still a world away, continuing on as childless dentists who had an uncanny joy in traveling the great Australian Outback. The memory charm had been too strong, irreversible without serious risk of damaging their minds forever. She'd visited them for a weekend, watching from afar and drinking in the sight of them — happy, alive. It had been worth it to protect them, but she could never go back to see them again. It hurt too much.

At that moment the compartment door jerked open, a tall wizard almost taking a step inside before jerking back, his white-blonde hair swishing as his gray eyes widened. Hermione stared into those eyes for a moment, plunging into the storm, taking her back to a moment when she'd been lying on a cold floor in a manor far, far away, her veins burning from the Cruciatus Curse…

Without comment, the wizard slammed the compartment door shut.

"Was that Draco Malfoy?" Luna asked, craning her neck. "He must've come in here by mistake."

Neville got up to turn the lock on the door.

"He'd be lucky not to make that mistake again," he muttered.

Hermione was trembling. She held out her hands, watching them shake. It had been nearly four months since the last battle, four months since Voldemort had perished at the hands of her best friend, but she still suffered in the aftermath of all the destruction she had witnessed and endured. When she looked into Draco Malfoy's strange gray eyes she was drowned in them, sinking into a memory that still made her soul scream. He had witnessed her at her lowest, had witnessed her beg for release, for death. She had stared into those stormy eyes for a brief moment so long ago, had pleaded with his aunt as she had tortured her again and again, ripping her very soul from her body. She had seen his pity, and that pity burned through her like Fiendfyre, consuming her in her own rage. Just one look from Draco Malfoy and she was there again, reliving it.

She pulled her wand and a tiny pocket-sized book from her robes, mumbling, " _Engorgio"_ to bring the book back to it's normal size. Her hands still shook, but she was determined to distract herself. She would not think about Draco Malfoy's haunting eyes. She must not.

When the train neared Hogsmeade Station, Hermione pinned her Head Girl badge to her chest, right above her heart, and exited swiftly to begin her rounds of the compartments. She made her way through the train, aiding the First Years and snapping at a pair of rowdy Third Years that had tried smuggling a trunk full of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes' fireworks into the school.

"Bring it here," she said, using her most commanding and bossy tone.

The boys snickered, elbowing each other as they pointed to her arm. Hermione felt her stomach lurch. They couldn't possibly know, could they?

"Is it true?" one of them boldly asked. "Do you really have a Mudblood scar on your arm?"

Before she could answer, before she could find a way to compose herself, a tall figure emerged from behind her, wand out.

"Watch your mouth," a deep voice snarled. "Want to see what I've got on my arm?"

The boys stood, mouths agape for a moment as the tall figure pulled up his sleeve, showing them something on his arm that seemed to scare them half to death.

"Do as she said. Do it now," he said, jerking his sleeve down.

The boys jumped, quickly scrambling to push the contents of the trunk at Hermione's feet. Then they turned and ran, rushing out of the train to the awaiting carriages outside of the station.

Hermione turned, the blood draining from her face as she looked up to find Draco Malfoy standing beside her. A green and silver Head Boy pin glinted on his chest. Wild anger coursed through her veins, igniting a fire that she was sure would burn until she could confront McGonagall. How _could_ she do this? This boy, this insufferable cruel and cowardly boy was given the task of leading the school beside her? A Death Eater to represent their school, to influence young minds? McGonagall must have gone mad.

She forced herself to look away and tried to focus on taking breaths that would not alert Malfoy of her distress. She couldn't think of anything to say, and he seemed to suspect as much or didn't care. He stepped around her, continuing down the train, jerking open compartment doors to check for students. She stood for a moment, feeling a tingle of the scar on her arm. For the first time she truly understood what Harry must have felt, walking around with his pain and his loss as a scar right on his forehead. She tugged her sleeve, blinked away hot tears, and bent to gather the sparklers in her arms to dispose into a bin.

Ten minutes later, she'd finished overlooking a handful of house elves in getting trunks to the castle and Malfoy had finished his check of the train. Together, they'd completed their first tasks as Head Boy and Head Girl. This year's First Years huddled inside the station, looking so small that Hermione wondered if they were just getting smaller every year or if she'd never realized that she had once also been that small. House Prefects greeted her as they passed, making their way to their Prefect carriage. It nearly shook her to the bone when she saw what a thestral truly looked like. Had she really ridden _that_ to the Ministry of Magic in her fifth year?

Malfoy at least seemed to take his job as Head Boy seriously. To her relief, he seemed rather happy to ignore her. She wondered what he was doing at Hogwarts. The Malfoys had conveniently escaped imprisonment by changing their allegiance in the last few hours of the war, though this time Lucius Malfoy hadn't the luxury of explaining away his nefarious actions by claiming to be under the Imperius Curse. Though the Malfoys had retained all of their wealth, the family's reputation within the wizarding community had been destroyed. Malfoy's family, along with the families of other Death Eaters, had been slandered all summer by the editors of The Daily Prophet. Surely his world had been shattered, and yet he was here, acting as if he wasn't easily the most hated student in all of Hogwarts.

She bit her lip. Her world had been torn apart too, and like him, she had returned as well. Malfoy had always been brilliantly gifted in his schoolwork, but as the thought crossed her mind she felt angry with herself. Tonks and Lupin were dead partly because of the actions of his family. Fred, so young, so full of life, had been murdered at the hands of people that Draco Malfoy probably called his _friends_. Her hatred for him ran so deep that it was turning her heart black, scorching the last of the good she had left in her. What she wanted to do was curse him, maybe even kill him, but made the sensible decision of restraining herself. There was, after all, a group of children waiting to be escorted to Hogwarts.

Malfoy was approaching the First Years now, a parchment in his hand that was nearly identical to the one she had in her pocket. She pulled hers out, made her way to the the First Years and watched silently as Malfoy made a quick headcount.

"Stop squirming, I'm trying to count," Malfoy snapped, whispering _one, two, three, four, five_ under his breath. The group stilled immediately.

"All here," Malfoy said aloud.

Though Hermione knew that Hagrid had long since left his post as Groundskeeper to marry Madame Maxime, a part of her still couldn't help but look for him. It would have been nice to see a friendly face again.

But here she was, stuck looking at the dreadful face of one Draco Malfoy, Death Eater extraorindaire. She was half ready to march into the Headmistress's office and throw her Head Girl pin in McGonagall's face.

"Come along, we'll be late for the Sorting. Boats are this way," Hermione said, using the last of her patience to get to the castle. She led the way, taking the First Years down the steps of the station to a worn path. Malfoy, who was walking silently behind the group, made no effort to catch up to her. Together, they helped load the children into the boats as darkness swept over them like a thick blanket. They lit the lanterns with their wands and instructed the First Years to stay seated and be mindful of the Giant Squid. They did all this without exchanging a single word with one another.

Finally, Hermione climbed into a boat, clutching on for dear life as it swayed dangerously. Malfoy had already settled into another boat with two other First Years, looking bored and a little tired. The boats began the journey of their own accord, as they always had, and took them through the darkness, giving the children their first glance of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In Hermione's year, there had been ten students eager to begin their magical training. Only five new hopeful faces looked up Hogwarts tonight, the same wonderment in their eyes that she had experienced so many years ago. _Just two measly boats_ , she thought. She was reminded again of how the war had devastated their world. So much death, so much destruction and loss. Only five children. She did not want to think about how many children had perished, how many boats there may have been if the world were not such a dark and deadly place.

Malfoy and his family had been so heavily responsible for so much that had happened in the war. It disgusted — no, _infuriated_ — her that he was here, casually enjoying a nighttime boat ride to the castle. He'd helped Death Eaters into that very castle. Hogwarts, her school, her home, had been threatened, destroyed, and tainted by the likes of _him._ How could McGonagall do this?

So Hermione did something quite out of character — she sat back and let Malfoy lead for the night. She was sure, absolutely sure, that if she opened her mouth the first words out of it would likely be _Avada Kedavra._ So she clenched her fist, pursed her lips and walked silently behind the group when they made their way up to the castle. She let Malfoy prepare them for the Sorting, feeling rather annoyed that he was also acting rather out of character. Why wasn't he bullying them, mocking them and cackling maliciously at the sight of their nervous faces?

All through McGonagall's welcoming speech, the Sorting, and dinner, Hermione sat and fumed. She picked at her food, peering at the drumsticks in a dish in front of her that Ron surely would have diminished in seconds. Plates, silverware and goblets clinked around her.

"Are you alright?" Ginny Weasley asked her.

Hermione nodded, managing a small smile as she reluctantly lifted a forkful of mashed potatoes to her mouth. The food that she had looked forward to all summer tasted like ash in her mouth.

At the end of dinner, McGonagall made a final short speech and dismissed the students to bed. Hermione watched the Prefects begin to lead their respective Houses, raising their voices to be heard over the sounds of hundreds of moving feet and chattering voices.

This was the part of the night Hermione had dreaded the most. She pulled out a letter from her pocket, staring at her last task.

MEETING: HEAD BOY AND HEAD GIRL WITH HEADMISTRESS

"See you in a few," Hermione said to Ginny who was so busy lining up students that she didn't seem to hear her. She turned to see that Malfoy was already exiting the Great Hall, his back turned and his hands deep in his pockets. She'd have to look at his slimy back the whole walk to McGonagall's office.

A couple of minutes later when he spoke the password to the gargoyle and ascended the spiraling staircase, Hermione hung back. She needed to gather her wits for the fight she had been preparing for. If Malfoy tested her at all, she'd worked up in her mind that she would hex him from Hogwarts to hell.

She spoke the password and made her way up the stairs, smoothing her robes absently as she prepared the conversation in her mind. She knocked on the door to McGonagall's office.

"You may enter, Miss Granger," she heard Mcgonagall say.

Hermione opened the door and stepped inside slowly. She had only been in that office a handful of times. She looked up at the portrait of Dumbledore hopefully. He offered her an encouraging smile. She ignored Severus Snape's new portrait altogether.

"Have a seat," McGonagall said, summoning rolls of parchment from across the room with a wave of her wand. She took one and unfolded it, reviewing its contents through her spectacles.

Malfoy looked as if he was deciding which seat to take. Hermione took that as her moment to act.

"Headmistress, I need to speak with you," Hermione said, turning to McGonagall. " _Alone_."

McGonagall rolled up the parchment on her desk and folded her hands. It was obvious she had anticipated the conversation that was about to occur.

"If you'll step outside for just a moment, Mister Malfoy," McGonagall said, motioning to the door.

Malfoy gave her a curt nod and stepped quietly out of the office, closing the door behind him.

"Have a seat, Miss Granger," McGonagall said.

Hermione hesitated. She was burning with anger, but what she felt most was betrayal. McGonagall had _betrayed_ everything Dumbledore and the Order had fought for by fraternizing with the enemy. Draco Malfoy, the worst person she had encountered at Hogwarts, the bully, the coward, the enemy to be rewarded with the esteemed position of Head Boy? No, she definitely needed to remain standing for this.

"Why is _he_ here?" Hermione asked, her question coming out in such a sneer that she felt her face go red from using such a tone with her headmistress.

"He is here upon the request of his parents to complete his education. It would be wise for you to remember that it was Narcissa Malfoy's lie that spared Harry Potter's life," McGonagall said.

"But why make him Head Boy then? Why?" Hermione asked, crossing her arms to keep them from trembling.

"I do not owe you an explanation, Miss Granger, and mind that henceforth I will not be repeating myself. I have given Mister Malfoy the monumental task of rebuilding Slytherin's reputation. Not a single Slytherin student pledged allegiance to the Order's side during the battle last May. Why is that Miss Granger?"

"Because they're traitors," Hermione said quickly before she could stop herself.

"Whatever you may think, Miss Granger, those students were _children._ Children who chose to side with their families, as most children are expected to do. The other Houses will not tolerate nor forget this. A Slytherin as a leader of this school is what Hogwarts needs to reunite the Houses. You will be working very closely with Mr. Malfoy to restore all order."

"He's vile," Hermione said defiantly. "He's a coward. He fought _against_ us!"

"Draco Malfoy is merely a victim of his own circumstances," McGonagall said, her voice even and collected. "And I'm surprised at you, Miss Granger," McGonagall said, giving Hermione a frown. "I did not know you to be one to lead with their emotions."

"I am also the victim of my circumstances," Hermione said, thinking of the Mudblood scar on her arm, of the parents that would never remember her, of the friends she had lost, of that day at Malfoy Manor when her very soul had been ripped from her body, all while Draco Malfoy had stood there and _watched._

"Your ability to persevere in even the most difficult of situations has always been a quality that I have admired," McGonagall said, her knowing eyes softening as Hermione swiped at angry tears that fell from her eyes. McGonagall took a handkerchief from her robes and held it out.

"Thank you," Hermione said, taking it and making a rather unladylike sound as she blew into it. A moment of silence passed between the two of them as Hermione gathered her bearings. McGonagall looked at her expectantly, her expression carefully controlled.

"I apologize," Hermione said. "You are Headmistress of this school. I have no right to question any of your decisions."

"Apology accepted. Now, if you'll step out and retrieve Mr. Malfoy we can begin the discussion to review your duties this coming week."

"Yes, Headmistress," Hermione said.

Using Malfoy was purely strategic — logical, even — if he lived up to McGonagall's expectations. He'd been a Slytherin Prefect in their fifth year and had always been fairly intelligent, though always second to her, she thought smugly. He was a natural leader — a little manipulative and harsh, but firm. Dumbledore had seen good in him, had believed there was something in him worth saving. McGonagall seemed to see it too. What the hell was she missing then? An epiphany?

She opened the door and stepped outside, finding Malfoy leaning against the wall opposite the door. She had never noticed how tall he had grown to become, his body lean and willowy. The angular lines of his face and the deep hollows of his cheeks made him look... tortured, somehow. He used to have a boyish quality about him, a stupidly hideous charm in his immature behavior. Looking at him now she almost couldn't believe she was looking at the same person. He looked almost as dead as she felt, as if the war had changed him, too. Up until that moment it hadn't occurred to her that Draco Malfoy had also lost something in the war — something that she was sure she had lost, too. He had lost himself.

When he looked up at her, she was startled to find an expression that he was desperately trying to hide — sadness. Deep, endless, heartbreakingly familiar sadness.

Hermione sighed, biting back the insults she wanted to scream at him.

"Come on," she managed with a steady and even tone. It was the first words she had spoken to him all day.

"Listen," Malfoy said, approaching her slowly. "I didn't come here to fight."

Hermione's eyes flashed. "Neither did I!"

Malfoy stuck out his hand, just as he had in their first year. Only then he had been flushing with confidence that Harry Potter would be happy to accept his offer of friendship. This time, he did not look so sure.

"What — what are you doing?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"The right thing," he said, his gray eyes clouded with a darkness that seemed to fill them both. "Shake it, Granger."

This infuriated her even more. If she refused to shake his filthy hand then she'd prove once and for all that _she_ was small-minded and cruel! In an instant she could absolve him of his sins, making it apparent that he was the bigger person for taking the first step. He would remember this moment; he would relish in it. _No,_ she told herself. She wouldn't let him win. She just couldn't.

Hermione took his hand and shook it.

Safe in her bed later that evening, Hermione would remember that he'd offered her his left hand. Arms of Mudblood and the Dark Mark had, in that one fleeting moment, touched in a show of acceptance. Of peace.

* * *

 **A/N: Hermione is a bit flighty in my story. It may come across a bit OOC, but this is a story about a mentally ill person. Interpret that however you must.**


	2. Chapter 2

_I am not a victim_ , Hermione Granger told herself every morning in the mirror as she got dressed. She forced herself to watch, inspecting the scars that she had acquired from roughing it out in the wilderness and fighting in a senseless and devastating war. Faded bug bites, gleaming scars from burns, various scratches, and lastly there was the one that made her the most self-conscious — the one given to her by Bellatrix Lestrange. She kept telling herself that these scars could only affect her if she let them, but so far the thought alone had not kept them from destroying her confidence in her daily inspection of her pathetic reflection. Months of malnutrition and stress had changed her appearance drastically. Despite a summer of Molly Weasley's hearty meals, she still had not regained the former luster in her hair or fully gained back the twenty six pounds of bodyweight she had lost. She looked gaunt, half-dead and had a hunger in her eyes that couldn't be satiated with food.

 _I am not a victim._

She straightened her tie, attempted to wrestle her hair into a loose french braid and slung her bag over her shoulder. She was running late for her Alchemy class. It was an advanced elective, offered only to Seventh Years. She enjoyed the subject greatly, speeding through her textbooks and coursework in her effort to distract herself. It seemed she was always finding new and creative ways to get through her days.

For the better part of her first week back at school she had explored her new quarters that came as a benefit of being Head Girl. She was both excited and horrified to learn that she would share living quarters with a number of her professors. She had never thought to think of _where_ they slept, but the newfound knowledge was strange to possess now that she was actually _living_ with them. There was a shared a common room, a study, a kitchen and a few bathrooms that put the Prefect's one to shame. Hermione was grateful to find that her bedroom was secluded, a long flight of stairs up to a tower that belonged to her and only her. The living arrangements pleased her as the professor's common room was a far more suitable place in which to study than the one in Gryffindor tower. She even preferred it over the library, enjoying the fact that during the day it was mostly empty and thus presenting her with a private and quiet place to work.

The only drawback (and of course there was one) was the very slim chance of running into Draco Malfoy. She wasn't quite sure where his quarters were as he often seemed to appear out of nowhere, but she decided very quickly that she didn't care. He avoided the hell out of their shared spaces. She hardly saw him, but it was still frustrating to think that every time she fancied a bath or a snack there was a chance that she might pass him. A single handshake was not enough to repair years of animosity, hatred and disgust for one another. Even though it had served as an unspoken truce Hermione still wished that he had been assigned quarters in the dungeons where she firmly believed he belonged.

"Good morning, Miss Granger!" Professor Flitwick greeted her cheerily as she descended the stairs of her tower. She was growing quickly tired of her obsession in over-analyzing her current predicament. If she could survive riding on the back of a dragon then surely she could survive living in close proximity to Draco Malfoy.

"Good morning, Professor," she said, offering a meek smile as passed him. _Speak of the devil_. She groaned. Malfoy was just exiting the kitchen, an apple in hand and obviously just as late as she for their Alchemy class. She calculated the many different paths she could take to the classroom and could think of none other than the one she already took. She was thankful to see him hang back, feigning interest in a quick chat with Professor Flitwick. Hermione had half a mind to make a run for it, but quickly talked herself out of it. She didn't want to give him the notion that he could drive her away by simply appearing in her path.

She was a quarter of the way there when she heard the soft patter of his feet on the floor just a few yards behind her. With legs that long it was no surprise that he'd caught up to her. She could hear him approaching closer and closer until she was sure that he was about to surpass her.

"Granger," he said with a nod.

She looked over her shoulder and repressed a frustrated groan. Malfoy had slowed to an even pace to walk beside her. _What the hell is he playing at?_

"Malfoy," she replied. She stuck her hand in her pocket and clasped her wand. _Just in case._

They did not share another word with one another the whole walk to the alchemy classroom. Something had shifted between them since the handshake, something that unsettled her greatly. She didn't trust him, didn't even like him, but she found that she no longer loathed his very presence at Hogwarts. It was a feeling that was out of place, a feeling that made her feel like she was betraying herself. He was so quiet, so solemn and _different_ now. He didn't seem interested in mocking her or bullying her or even acknowledging her existence on most days. She kept waiting for him to him sneer, flash her a nasty smile or even look upon her with an evil glint in his eyes, but he didn't. The wizard walking beside her was Draco Malfoy, and yet she had a feeling that it wasn't him at all.

Presumably sensing her discomfort, Hermione was relieved to see Malfoy take the farthest seat from her when they entered the classroom. None of his usual cronies had returned to school, though he now shared the company of Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini, fellow Slytherins that were as focused on their studies as he was. He often sat with them, sharing his notes and speaking with them in hushed voices to discuss their coursework. Hermione had seen the three of them dine together at the Great Hall and often saw them wandering around the grounds together. Watching them always caused a sharp pain in her chest. They reminded her so much of Harry, Ron and herself. Hogwarts was not the same without them. Though she enjoyed the company of her other friends, she still felt lonelier than ever before. She missed her _best_ friends.

Ginny suddenly elbowed her, jolting her out of her thoughts. Hermione looked around, acutely aware that everyone was staring at her. For a very brief second she caught Malfoy's eye. The morning sunlight cast an illuminating glow over him, causing his gray eyes to look silver and cat-like. She looked away quickly, uncomfortably aware that her heart rate had increased.

"Miss Granger? Did you hear my question?" The professor asked her.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I did not," Hermione answered sheepishly.

The rest of the morning passed without incident. She attended the classes of two of her favorite subjects — Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. These were two subjects that she especially excelled at. The study of numerology and runic scriptures was both challenging and comforting. She was always a little disappointed when the classes ended. She imagined Ron calling her mental for wanting to extend classes that already lasted from one to three hours. By the time it was her lunch hour Hermione was usually ravenous, especially on days like these when she hadn't had time for breakfast.

"The steak and kidney pie must be especially good today. I think I'll have some," Luna said at lunch. She often sat at the Gryffindor table as all of her friends were Gryffindors.

"It isn't," Hermione said between bites. "I'm just really hungry."

"Oh, how strange," Luna said after a few moments.

Hermione looked up. "What's strange?"

"Oh nothing really," Luna said with a confused look on her face. "It's just — well, it's just that I think Draco Malfoy is _staring_ at you."

It took everything in Hermione's power to stop herself from looking over to the Slytherin table.

"Do you reckon he fancies you?"

Hermione choked on a piece of her pie. She reached for her glass of pumpkin juice and coughed violently when it trickled into her windpipe.

"Are you alright?" Luna asked in one of her far-off dreamy tones.

"Mmhmm," was all Hermione could answer in response.

Surely Luna must have been mistaken. Draco Malfoy had no reason to look at her, much less stare. She tried to push the thought from her mind, but periodically throughout the day it popped back into her mind. To her complete and utter disgust, on a number of occasions Hermione caught herself studying him during class. He had a serious look of concentration on his face when he was taking notes, his quill scribbling with such speed that she wondered if he even knew what he was writing. His white-blonde hair was brushed back from his face, but when he leaned over his parchment a few loose strands fell into his eyes. Sometimes he would sigh and run a hand through his hair, an action which bothered Hermione deeply. She chastised herself for looking at him. Why, then, couldn't she help it?

She was relieved to attend to her Head Girl duties later during a free period, happy to be away from his presence. She checked in with a few House Prefects, readied her notes of the weekly ongoings of the school for her next meeting with McGonagall and absently patrolled the castle to make sure students weren't loitering outside of classes in session. Muggle Studies was her last class of the day, another welcome two hours away from Malfoy. She skipped dinner in the Great Hall for a helping of some leftover butter chicken that had been made by one of the professors in their shared kitchen.

After her dinner she settled into a comfortable armchair in the common room and got started on completing the mountain of homework she had been assigned. Armed with a thick roll of parchment and extra bottles of ink, Hermione set to work. Within the hour her temples were throbbing. She had a horrible headache and it didn't help that twice she had absently reached for her bag to proofread Harry and Ron's papers. Sitting alone in a strange and unfamiliar room, she felt that perhaps it had been a mistake to come back. Surely she shouldn't be this miserable, should she? Her heart still ached, her memories still tortured her if she didn't actively work around the clock to push them from her mind, and her parents still didn't know they had a daughter that grieved them like the dead every single day. She blinked back tears, ashamed of herself for her lack of control in her own emotions.

Frustrated, lonely and tired, she retired early to her tower and locked the door, quickly changed into her nightdress and climbed under the covers. She weakly mumbled "muffliato" and succumbed to crying herself to sleep.

 _I am not a victim_ , she had told herself so many times.

But maybe that wasn't true.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hullo guys, Nora here! I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who has been reading this story. This is my first fanfiction and I have enjoyed the kind words some of you have shared with me. I really appreciate reviews and messages, and I am especially open to constructive criticism.**

 **Please note, this story has been rated M for a reason ;) More to come soon!**

* * *

 _Gray eyes, clouded like a storm, brewed as they watched her. The gaze was warm, almost tender. A hand was offered before her. She studied the long fingers, the smooth, pale skin._

 _"Shake it, Granger." His voice was deep, velvety and smooth._

 _She looked at him. Regal, aristocratic looks could not have been wasted on a more undeserving person. He had grown into the angular lines of his face, making him so handsome that it was almost a sin to look at him. There was a quietness about him now, like the calm before a storm._

 _When she took his hand he looked_ _humbled, relieved. His hand closed around hers and she felt a tightness in her chest. She could hear the frantic thrum of her heartbeat in her ears._

 _His grip was firm, but there was a subtle gentleness there. Stupid as it was, she didn't want him to let go. She was drawn to him, drawn to the familiar sadness in his eyes — the sadness that resided in her chest, thick and agonizing. When she looked into his eyes she saw herself. Broken, flittering on one wing, twisting and seizing. Who was Draco Malfoy these days? Who was Hermione Granger?_

 _She knew it deep in her soul that it didn't matter anymore. They may as well be one and the same._

Hermione's eyes flashed open. She sat up in her bed, clutching her hand to her heart. A panic attack jolted in her veins, coursing through her like lightening. She tried to take deep breaths but they only made her gag. She saw the bodies, so many bodies. Bodies of people she knew, of people she loved. When she closed her eyes she saw flashes of green, heard the screams so deep that they rattled her bones.

 _Stop, please stop_ , she begged through her tears. _Please no!_

She heard a cackle, heard the crack in the air as a deadly curse came straight for her. She screamed. The shrieks were enough to wake the school, enough to draw everyone out of their beds, but she had charmed the room with her old pal _Muffliato._

After what seemed like hours, the pain subsided. There was only a light tingling left in her veins, an aftereffect from the burn of a curse that still haunted her. The strange dream she had had of Draco Malfoy was long forgotten. Exhausted, she fell into a deep, fitful sleep.

"You look horrible," Ginny told her the next morning over breakfast.

"Thanks," Hermione said as she buttered her toast.

Ginny leaned close, lowering her voice. "Are you still having those attacks?"

Hermione shrugged. She had spent her summer at The Burrow bunking with Ginny. There wasn't a spell in the world that could've hid her screams from the person who had slept less than five feet away from her. After much pleading, Ginny had agreed to keep Hermione's secret. The attacks were her burden to bear, her shame to live with.

"Don't you think you should tell somebody? Get some help?" Ginny pressed.

Hermione shot her a deathly glare. "Will you drop it already?"

"Fine," Ginny said angrily. She rose from the table and stormed off.

Hermione reached for another piece of toast, her eyes wandering as she thought about a paper she had to write for her Advanced Potions class. She should have paid attention to what she was doing. Before she could even think to stop herself she was looking at the Slytherin table, right into a pair of peculiar gray eyes.

 _Crap_.

Draco Malfoy held her gaze, his face emotionless. He lifted a hand in greeting.

 _Crap, crap, crap._ She sat there and stared stupidly.

He perched his chin on his hand and watched her from across the crowded room. He looked bored and uninterested, but his eyes stayed glued to her, almost as if he was challenging her. In an effort to retain her dignity, Hermione stared back. The leftover annoyance with Ginny intensified as she stared into his cold eyes.

"Hermione!"

She tore her gaze away, turning to see Luna jumping and waving from the entrance.

"Herbology! We're going to be late for Herbology!" she yelled.

Hermione jumped to her feet, shoved the rest of her toast into her mouth and slung her bag over her shoulder. When she looked back at the Slytherin table she was disappointed to see that Malfoy had already left. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ She shook her head to chase the thought away and ran to catch up with Luna.

After almost a month of being back at Hogwarts, Hermione was slowly getting back into the swing of things. Her classes were hard, preparing her for NEWTs that were likely going to kick her ass at the end of the year, but she found peace in all her coursework. It kept her mind busy. It was nice to have something to do after a summer of doing nothing, nothing and more nothing. The panic attacks truly were not as bad as they had been before. She was no longer crippled with multiple attacks throughout the day, and thankfully she slept without incident most nights. They just bothered her _sometimes_.

 _I am not a victim_.

She still didn't entirely believe her mantra, but she was getting better at hiding her sadness now. Ginny saw right through her, but otherwise everyone else was fooled. Hermione handed out smiles like candy these days, beaming at almost everyone who crossed her path. She took her position as Head Girl very seriously. After her first successful meeting with the House Prefects her confidence had soared to new heights. She had led a heated discussion on school events, budgets for the year's Quidditch uniforms, and improvements on day-to-day operations. As Head Boy, Malfoy was obligated to attend these meetings, but he was so quiet that she often didn't even notice him. She did, however, lose her train of thought whenever she glanced at him because he was always staring at her with that same tired look in his eyes. She told herself that she wouldn't even _breathe_ in his direction at the next meeting.

If McGonagall had been right about one thing, it was that the state of Slytherin's position was nearly irreparable. Slytherins were absolutely _loathed_ by the other Houses. Damage control had become Malfoy and Hermione's number one priority. They each found their own way to handle the rising number of altercations. While Hermione was a firm scolder, Malfoy resorted to deducting House points. He showed no restraint, docking as much as fifty points at a time. All hell broke loose when he surprised everyone (especially Hermione) by deducting points from members of his own House. He was so unpopular that other than Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass and his professors, hardly anyone even spoke to him.

McGonagall was very displeased.

"Unite the Houses," she said, reminding them of their task in their last meeting with her. "You two _must_ work together. The rest of the Houses will follow your lead, Miss Granger. And you," she had said, turning to Malfoy, "You must make an effort to lead your House. They cannot respect you if they dislike you."

 _Work together_.

Determined to excel at everything, _especially_ in her duties as Head Girl, Hermione elected to treat the problem like a difficult homework assignment. She spent the afternoon in a quiet corner of the library with books piled around her. She wrote a detailed report that was a quarter of an inch thick. She had researched current magical law, medieval disputes, politically charged uprisings, and had sourced a particularly good book detailing school spirit in magical schools. Armed with facts, Hermione had written down a carefully composed six week plan. All that was left was the hardest part — getting Malfoy on board.

She had three classes that day with Malfoy, giving her three opportunities to approach him. Getting him alone was no easy task. His friends followed him everywhere. Hermione toyed with the idea of walking up to him to request a word, but of course she couldn't do that with Daphne and Blaise watching. Just because he didn't insult her now didn't mean he wouldn't hesitate to do so in front of his friends. His friends had always egged him on in the past, and though his new friends had not been part of that group, Hermione still felt wary. She didn't know them, didn't know what they were capable of.

So Hermione let the day slip away from her, slowly getting more and more frustrated with herself for being such a coward. By the end of their last class she was desperate and knew that she must resort to desperate measures. She decided to borrow a page out of Harry's book.

 _"Diffindo_ ," she muttered quietly under her breath, concentrating on the corner of his bag. She had never been so thankful for her learned ability in performing wand-less magic.

Everyone began dispersing when class was dismissed. As Malfoy rose to leave, the contents of his bag came spilling out through the rip that Hermione had made. He bent and began to collect his things.

"I'll catch up with you at dinner," he said to his friends.

"Are you sure? We can wait," Daphne said, hovering by the door with Blaise.

"I'm sure," he said. "Go on."

Hermione pretended to organize the contents of her bag while the class slowly emptied. Ginny still wasn't speaking to her and huffed off without a word. Luna and Neville were busily talking about a Hogsmeade visit and trailed out the door without a second thought. Other classmates left for dinner at the Great Hall. Finally, it was just her and Malfoy. Hermione got up, tried to swallow down the worst of her nerves, and walked towards him.

Sensing her presence, he looked up over his shoulder and rewarded her with a rare smirk.

"So Granger, you want to tell me why you ripped my bag?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter playlist: "Wasted Youth" - Sody and Martin Luke Brown**

* * *

Draco Malfoy was staring at her expectantly, a small gleam of mischief in his eyes.

 _No, no, no, no._

This was the exact _opposite_ of how this was supposed to happen. Her carefully constructed plan, her hours slaved away in the library, her aching hands from scribbling a report almost as thick as her pinky finger — all for _this_? It might have been bearable — funny, even — if she had been caught doing this by someone else. There was a heavy and suffocating shame that came from being caught by Draco fucking Malfoy.

So she did the only thing she could think of — she lied.

Hermione forced out a scoff. "Your egocentric tendencies know no bounds. Why the hell would I rip your bag?"

"Right," Malfoy said, not buying a word of it. "Give it up, Granger. I saw you do it."

"Oh of _course_ you saw," she sneered. "Since you're always staring!"

" _You're_ the one who's always staring!"

Malfoy repaired the rip in his bag with the flick of his wand. When he rose, Hermione swallowed and took a step back. He towered over a head taller than her, standing with a feigned confidence that she knew he didn't truly possess. The lines of his jaw, the deep tired look in his eyes and the impassive expression on his face was all achingly familiar. She knew what it was like to stitch herself together like an old rag doll, knew what it was like to be her own puppet master, twisting and turning the strings to make pretend that she was still a real girl. A thousand swimming lies, a vast and complex emptiness — she saw it all reflected in his stormy eyes.

He crossed his arms. "What is it you want?"

"What makes you think I would want anything from you?" _God, what the fuck am I doing?_

He raised a single, irritating eyebrow. "Goodbye, Granger," he said, turning to make for the door.

Hermione let out the most hideous groan of her life. "Wait, wait!" she said, reaching out to catch his sleeve. The soft fabric was fisted in her hand before she realized what she'd done.

They both froze.

"Are you going to make me repeat myself?" he asked, glancing down at her hand.

"Fine," Hermione said, releasing him quickly. "I want something, okay? Are you happy now?"

Malfoy leaned back against a desk, looked up into the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh. "Gods, help me with this woman."

"Well, there's no need to be _rude_ —"

"Who's being rude? _I'm_ being rude?" He dropped his bag on the floor and made a show of pulling out a chair to take a seat. The conversation was quickly getting out of hand. She hadn't come to fight him. She hadn't come to do ... this —whatever _this_ even was. In the last few weeks all they had done was a lot of staring. She didn't know him, didn't know what his game was. It was crazy, completely fucking crazy to think that she actually wanted to know what made Draco Malfoy tick. She wanted him under a microscope, wanted to dissect him. _I must be losing my mind_ , she thought.

"What is your problem?" Dejected, she just wanted to get the conversation over with.

"Gods, Granger, have you always been this daft?" he asked, an unexpected dark laugh escaping from his throat. _There it is_. She knew there was still some Malfoy left in that hollow shell.

"I don't see what's so funny," she said, scowling at him.

"Really? You don't see how this is funny? Granger, _you still haven't told me what you want._ "

Hermione was livid now. She furiously dug through her bag, grabbed her report and slammed it on the desk in front of him. It took a great deal of restraint to keep from pulling her wand out and hexing him right in his repulsive face.

"What is this?" He picked up her report. "Six Week Hogwarts Reformation by Hermione Jean Granger? Tell me you're joking." She saw the twitch of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Why didn't he just go on and laugh at her again?

Hermione's face reddened. She had never felt so humiliated in her life. Why had she even bothered?

"Forget it," she said, snatching the parchment out of his hands. She shoved it under her arm and seriously considered punching him in the face. It had felt so good the last time she'd done it.

He rose from his seat. "At least let me read it."

"Come up with your own plans, Malfoy," she said smartly and turned on her heel. She enjoyed the satisfaction of getting the last word for all of three seconds. She let out a little scream when she felt a warm hand grip her elbow and tug her back. _Now_ she was ready for a fight.

"How _dare_ you touch —"

"Quiet," he said, cutting her off. "Quiet, will you? Give me four seconds." He held up his free hand, showing her four fingers. "Four seconds, Granger. Will you just quiet for four fucking seconds?"

Her heartbeat was erratic. They'd both invaded each other's personal space today and she didn't know how to feel about that. His grip wasn't painful, but it was strong enough to trap her there.

"It's been more than four seconds," she said, trying to tug her arm back. "Can I go now?"

"Give me the bloody report and we can both be on our way."

Hermione shoved it into his chest. "Here."

When he released her she ran like hell. She ran and ran all the way to her tower, ran until she was locked safely in her bedroom. Even when her body had stopped running, her heart hadn't. The last time her skin had made contact with Draco Malfoy had been five years ago, when she'd punched him in the face. He looked the same, just a little less boyish than before, but there was almost nothing about that arrogant 13-year-old that connected him to the person she had spoken to today. Sure, he'd made fun of her, but there was no malice, just an innocence that made Hermione wonder who Draco Malfoy could have become if only he'd been born into a different family, if only his father had not led him like a lamb for slaughter by pushing him to become a Death Eater at the tender age of sixteen.

Her body burned, not because she was angry with him, but because she was angry with herself.

Some small shitty part of her had enjoyed every second of their banter. And a smaller, very tiny and very un-shitty part of her was beginning to see that behind the Death Eater mask had been a boy. A young, brain-washed boy who had only been the victim of his circumstances.

"Damn it, McGonagall," Hermione groaned. "You were right."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** **Thank you for your continued support!**

 **Lurkers, your views encourage me! :') As always, constructive criticism, questions and reviews greatly appreciated. -Nora**

* * *

 **Chapter Playlist: "Make Me Feel Better (feat. Matt Van)" - Wistful**

* * *

The leaves were a fading green, sometimes yellow, orange and then brown. They crunched under Hermione's feet, reminding her of how quickly time passed, pausing for nothing, stopping for no one. Hogsmeade was bustling with people, the stores overflowing with local residents and Hogwarts students. It was a nice day, cloudy but not too cold. In fact, it had all the potential to be a perfect day, if not for the dread that filled her.

Ronald Weasley walked beside her, an innocent grin on his face. He'd grown a beard since she'd last seen him. He look changed, and in some small way it saddened her. He was growing up, moving on to find his place in the world. Without her.

It was bittersweet. He was happy; happy in a way that she hadn't been able to manage for her own self. Her heart wasn't ready, not yet. The darkness had a hold on her and she was its captive. The Cruciatus Curse had unleashed something within her, almost as if it had unlocked the door to every horror her mind could conjure. It had stolen her youth, had made her impure. She was only a skeleton of the person she had once been. She couldn't drag Ron down with her. What could she offer? She barely had the energy to go on. He deserved so much more than what she could give him. So much more.

"…and Harry stopped by with Teddy at The Burrow. He's grown so much, Hermione. Looks just like his mum, crazy hair colors and all."

Hermione offered a small smile, obscuring the horrible tug she'd felt in her heart. Tonks, beautiful Tonks, the loveliest, funniest woman she'd ever known. Her son would never know her, never know the woman who would always be a part of him. Someday he would hopefully understand her sacrifice, maybe when he had a child of his own. A parent's love knew no bounds. It transcended all, even through death. She knew this because she had seen it in Harry, had seen the way he'd loved his mum and dad without ever having known them because it hadn't mattered — they had never left him.

"Hermione?" Ron asked. "You alright?"

She looked up at him, unable to stop the tears that trickled down her face.

"Hermione," he said, leading her down a secluded residential street. He pulled her into his arms."What's wrong? Was it something I said?"

"No, Ron," she said into his chest. The fabric of his robes rubbed against her lips. She took in the scent of him, felt the warmth of his arms one last time, burning it into her memory. They had grown up together, had bonded in a way that could not be broken. He was too wholesome, too full of love and passion to be wasted away on a lost cause like her. It was selfish to keep him for herself when she knew these were going to be the best years of his life. He deserved to love and be loved, wholeheartedly and with abandon.

"I don't want to do this, but I have to." She stepped out of his grasp, putting a distance between the two of them. The wall was invisible, but it was there, built the moment she'd stepped away. There was no going back now. She'd crossed the line and now she stood on the other side, far away where he would not be able to reach her. She had prepared for weeks. He could beg, he could plead, but she was ready. Tonks had taught her true sacrifice — this was _nothing_ compared to that. She couldn't be weak. She _had_ to do this, no matter how badly she wanted to turn back and undo everything — the whole war, the destruction, the wrath of evil and the life that had been stolen from her. But it was too late now.

Ron's face fell. "Don't, Hermione…"

"I hope you'll forgive me someday," she said, the words tasting like blood as they left her lips. Her chest was burning with a pain that she already knew would not dull for a long, long time.

"Don't tell me this is how it ends," Ron reached for her, but Hermione took another step back. He was crying now, too.

"You knew it would come down to this. You've known it for months," she pleaded, regretting that she couldn't control the awful, contorted expression on her face. She didn't want this memory to haunt him. She didn't want him to remember how much this broke her. He needed the chance to move on and she would be damned if she didn't give it to him.

"Was it ever real? Did you ever feel any love for me?"

She would never forget the look on his face when she lied to him.

"No."

There was a loud, deafening crack. Ron had Disapparated, leaving her alone in an empty street.

Hermione covered her face with her hands, fell to her knees and cried. The sobs were horrible noises, the worst sounds she had ever heard leave her body, harrowing and raw. The darkness was her shadow, the panic her punishment, the loneliness her companion. She paid the price for her sacrifice, paid it at the expense of her own sanity. She had broken the heart of the only man who had ever loved her.

 _I'm just giving you a fighting chance_. _Please forgive me._

It was nightfall by the time she made it back to the castle. Hermione felt as if her heart was clenched in the palm of her hand like a dark stone. She wanted to throw it away, somewhere far so that it couldn't hurt her anymore. She felt numb as she climbed the stairs, hardly hearing the portraits who greeted her. The stairs jerked, moving to connect to another part of the castle, but she felt nothing, noticed nothing around her. She held onto the stone banister, her head swimming. She let her feet lead her to her living quarters and tapped her wand on a false wall to reveal the secret entrance. She sauntered inside, almost in a trance, and walked right into a hard chest. A green and silver pin glinted in the soft haze of the candles that lit the small hallway.

Draco Malfoy looked down at her, his cold gray eyes a reflection of her own despair.

"How do you do it?" she asked, not even caring that she was crying. "How do you just hurt people without feeling anything?"

He looked at her with what she could only describe as pity. "I don't."

She shoved past him and ran.

"Granger," he called after her, but she didn't stop.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Playlist: "Alps" - Novo Amor, Ed Tullet**

* * *

Time had become a concept.

The days blended together, the nights endlessly deep. She hadn't been able to sleep in weeks. Her body suffered, had turned so frail that she hardly had the energy to get herself out of bed most mornings. She couldn't taste food, couldn't smell the freshness of the autumn air, couldn't even feel her own body. Every moment seemed to be an out-of-body experience; she was a fly on the wall, watching herself carry on without any drive, any purpose.

 _"Leave me alone_."

She'd said it like her life depended on it, and she was certain that it did. She hid in her quarters, venturing out only for her classes because there was a part of her that wanted to honor who she had once been. She sat alone, insisted until she nearly cried from begging.

 _"I just need some time alone."_

The wound was fresh, no matter that it had been weeks.

When she did manage some sleep, she dreamt of Ron, dreamt of the summer they had spent walking through worn paths at The Burrow, holding hands and trying to make sense of the world together. She dreamt of his lips on her skin, of his wandering hands and the things he had done with them. She remembered his freckles, scattered like the constellations of a universe she had always thought that she would be a part of. She didn't know when her happiness had become her ruin, didn't know when her love for him had begun to destroy her. Her darkness craved misery, craved things that she couldn't expose him to. It was her disease, and she did not want to spread it. Her love for him ran deep in her veins, flowed like the blood that sustained her. To save him was to damn herself. But she had done it because love transcended all, just as the past kept reminding her. Lupin and Tonks, their hands clasped even in death, sacrificing their very lives in the name of love. They all had — Dumbledore, Sirius, Snape, Lily and James. She was destroyed, but it had been worth it. Her love was saved.

Mrs. Weasley had come to see her twice. On both occasions she had pleaded with Hermione to admit herself into St. Mungo's. Both times had ended in a fantastic spectacle of shouts and sobs.

Hogwarts was home. It was all she had left.

"Just talk to Ron," everyone told her.

 _One step forward, two steps back_ , she reminded herself whenever she got the urge. She had made her bed and she would sleep in it, even if it was beginning to feel more like a coffin than a bed.

* * *

"Hermione? Hermione, are you listening to me?"

She blinked slowly, feeling groggy even though it was the middle of the day. She was settled in McGonagall's office, empty but for Harry Potter. There was a grim expression on his face, and she told herself that it was because he was disgusted with her. _She_ was certainly disgusted with herself, anyways.

"Stop this madness," he said, his voice strained. "Please."

"I'm fine, Harry," she said, offering him her best smile. It was a pathetic effort.

"Just _see_ him, Hermione. He's right outside. Talk to him. _Please_."

"I don't need to see him. I'm moving on. Why won't everyone just let me do that in peace?"

"You think that's what you're doing? _Moving on?_ Hermione, you're dying. Just look at yourself!"

"Trust in me, Harry," she said with a voice that didn't really belong to her. "Have I ever let you down?"

He shook his head. "That Cruciatus Curse unhinged you, Hermione. I don't even know who you are anymore."

"Neither do I."

* * *

The wind howled, rattling against the castle windows. She was in the common room, sat on the floor hugging her knees as she looked into the fireplace, testing the flames to come burn her. It was the middle of the night, her favorite time because it was so empty. There was a deadness in the air and it was oddly comforting. She hummed to herself, trying to remember the words to an old lullaby her mother had sung to her. She was essentially an orphan, belonging to no one now. She knew she was losing her mind, but she held on stubbornly. _It'll pass_ , she told herself, even though she knew that it would not.

She sprawled herself out on the floor, enjoying the coolness of the marble tile. Her body always seemed to be too warm. It was nice to press her palms to the floor, to leave a heated handprint.

That was how Draco Malfoy found her.

His face was masked by the shadows, impossible to read. He stood there in front of her and she knew he was staring. She stared back, looking into the blackness as she tried to find his eyes. She had grown to love his eyes. It was an odd thing to think about a man she had once considered her mortal enemy, but she seemed to be full of oddities these days. She hadn't looked at him in weeks, but sometimes she thought about those gray eyes, the storm raging in them, and they called to her.

Without a word, without invitation or warning, Malfoy walked over and laid himself down on the cold tile beside her. He folded his arms behind his head, his face turned towards the ceiling. It was too dark to tell if he had his eyes open. She wanted to see them so badly, but didn't ask. In that moment he was her butterfly, beautiful to behold. She didn't want to scare him away.

No words needed to be spoken. There was nothing to say. She lay there in that darkness, her mind calming for the first time in weeks. He was beside her, close enough that she knew he would catch her if she fell. She knew she wasn't making any sense, but the notion was so strong that she allowed it to comfort her.

When she woke the next morning, she was safe in her bed, wrapped in a black cashmere sweater. It smelled deliciously of fresh-cut grass, old parchment… and Draco Malfoy.

He hadn't let her fall after all. He had carried her.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I have been waiting and waiting to be able to explore the relationship between these two. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would appreciate your thoughts. :)**

 **Special shoutout to my fairy godmother lun27! Your support and reviews have helped to shape this story :) Everyone, if you could please help me return the favor and go check out her story 'She is Clueless' I would be eternally grateful!**

 **-Nora**

* * *

The world shifted, opening a small dark door, offering her a place again. Starved, she planted her feet one in front of the other, walking the path of darkness, her heart weak in her chest. There was no light on the other side, but she had decided a long time ago that it didn't really matter. Her misery loved company, and the company had come knocking.

Dressed in all black like the angel of death, he had come for her in the dead of night, his soul the same weight as her own, his heartbeat thrumming beneath his skin, sluggish, but still there. He was her butterfly, her fluttering anxious secret, pulsing in the darkness in tiny beats, reminding her that there were things that still existed outside of her mind. In all the noise, he was her quiet, her stillness. When chaos had come for her, he had chosen to face it.

Because that was what was really so different, wasn't it? He did not try to chase away her demons. He greeted them with open arms, settling beside her on a cold hard floor when all he had to gain was despair.

She breathed in his cashmere sweater, breathed in the calm of the storm. It was a true kindness he had gifted her. Holding it in her hands, she was grounded. It had not been a figment of her imagination, and the thought was enough to lend her a tiny sliver of hope.

 _Hope_. How good it felt, like an old friend, a distant memory that had abandoned her in all the death and destruction. It resurfaced from a forgotten place, its presence strange, but welcome. It filled her with a glow, dim and small, but enough to guide her. She followed it the next night, her hungry soul starving, leading her right back to the common room.

He was already there.

"Don't tell me you'll treat me like a victim, too," she said to him in the shadows. The thought was consuming her, stealing a piece of her that she was not certain she would ever get back.

"Of course you're not a victim, Granger," he said, his voice soft. "You're a survivor."

When the dam broke, when the tears finally came, she felt a warmth envelope her. She gave herself to it, let herself be comforted by a man who had once been the physical manifestation of the gloom that had devoured her, had eaten away at her sanity. It was a wonder that he would be the one to free her.

Draco Malfoy held her in the deadness of night, his body warm, his arms strong. She felt her body go slack, felt him support her as the ground disappeared from beneath her. He carried her, and this time she was awake to see his face, heartbreakingly beautiful. When he looked down at her with those gray eyes, she was destroyed in the storm.

"Don't let go. Please."

"I won't," he promised.

She took his face in her hands, felt the deep hollows of his cheeks, traced the angular lines of his jaw. He felt just as she had imagined, warm, soft and rough all at once. She touched his hair, ran her hand through it, her heart clenching when he let out a deep sigh. His eyes were intense, holding her gaze the whole walk to her tower. There was no shyness between them, not anymore. There was an intimacy in the way they seemed to look right into each other, deeper, past the surface and into the dead place.

She ached when he lowered her to her bed. There was no hesitation in her hands when she gripped his shirt and pulled him close, his body hot and hard against hers. She was so small beneath him, bony and pitiful to behold. She wished she were desirable.

"Stay," she gasped, overcome with emotion.

He laid beside her and gathered her gently into his arms. There was a weightlessness that came from being held by him, an addicting high that intoxicated her.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her entire body trembling.

He found her hand in the darkness and pressed it to his chest. His heart beat against her palm, its rhythm seeping into her body, into her heart, into her bones.

"Feel that?" he asked.

She nodded.

"That's why."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: To clear up any confusion: As an artist, I had to make the decision to pull the previous chapter. While it was smut (who doesn't like that?) it didn't fit for this pair. It seemed out of place from the other chapters and broke the rhythm. I offer my sincerest and humblest apologies for changing the story. I hope you will understand why it was the right thing to do.**

 **This will also be the shortest chapter posted for this story. I promise.**

 **For those of you that enjoyed the chapter, I have uploaded it as a one-shot titled simply "Enigmatic".**

 **Happy readings,**

 **~Nora**

* * *

 **This time, I will insist on the song. Please listen as you read and it will all fall into place.**

 **"Hymn" - Joel Porter**

* * *

Time stood still.

She looked into the eye of the storm, the calm center of all that had every power to destroy her. A Malfoy, a Death Eater, an undoing, a string untied, sinking her under the ground, pulling her into the place that was bad for her — terrible, yes — but it was a place she wanted so much to be. There wasn't any part of her fighting it anymore. She sunk into his arms, sunk into the unfamiliarity until it became familiar, until it became real, solid, tangible and true.

When he kissed her, his hand curved around her jaw, his thumb on her chin, she felt the surprise for just a moment. His actions were brazen, his attitude of one that seemed to know that this was no wrong-doing, that this had been a long time coming. And it was.

 _Gods, yes._

She had expected the warmth, had felt it in his hands, his face, and then his mouth, but she had not expected to taste the hopelessness, the raw and naked loneliness. His kiss was bittersweet chocolate, the good stuff, the kind that came in pretty packaging and tasted even better than it looked. It was familiar, as if they'd done this before, as if there was an old life lived where he hadn't been a Death Eater and she hadn't been a leftover casualty of war. He tasted just right, melting into her mouth and making his home there, living inside her, breathing life into her.

It had been a slow burn, his breath like smoke in her lungs, kindled by a fire that she was sure had started much farther back than she cared to admit.

 _"I can't — I can't be sure."_

But he had been sure, Hermione was certain of it. She had seen the recognition in his eyes, had seen the falter in his steps, the ache of the burden on his shoulders. He had known it was Harry Potter that day at Malfoy Manor. And he had known her too, his old schoolmate, the Granger girl, the know-it-all, the glue to the Golden Trio. He had known her, had looked on while she had writhed in front of him, screaming until her soul tore from her body, and it hadn't been pity in his eyes.

It had been terror.

In the absence of light there had been only darkness, and a dark path would have been an easy one to take, but Draco Malfoy had not chosen it. Even now, he chose what she had seen him choose that day.

Shadow.

Despair.

Ruin.

But darkness? No, he hadn't chosen that. He was gray, hung in the shadows like cobwebs, spun of silver and sadness.

She forgave him and it freed her. There was no need for an apology, no need to exchange pleasantries and formalities. They had both been unwilling parties, two sides of the same coin, one in the light, the other in shadow.

But the same. They were the same.

"I want you," he whispered, his hands against all the places that made her writhe, but differently this time. In pleasure, in desire, in lust.

"I want you, too," she said, sealing her fate.

They undressed together, tasting the sadness until it wasn't sadness anymore, until it became something else, something that didn't hurt at all. Something that felt good, _so good_. She whimpered his name, his first name, gripped his shoulders and let desire consume her. His face buried into her wild, tangled hair, his groans pulling the strings somewhere in her body that made her seize with pleasure.

 _"I'm going to —"_

"Me too," he gasped.

It was fireworks, blinding white and painful, and lovely, and every wonderful and terrible thing all at once. It made her cry, but it was a good cry.

"Don't," he whispered, taking her face in his hands, his thumbs rubbing against her cheeks to wipe the tears.

"You aren't who I thought you were," she said, releasing the guilt, freeing it, freeing herself.

"And you're exactly who I thought you were," he said softly. There was such tenderness in his eyes that she feared her heart may burst.

He kissed her again and it did.

It burst.


	9. Chapter 9

The cold had come very slowly, settling in with endless rain, bitter and unforgiving, a drizzle and a pour, changing undecidedly as the nights became ever longer and longer still. There was a deep yearning in the ground, a yearning for frost, for dead things, and simple silence. It was weather that had once been irritating and unwanted, but these days, the stillness sat in Hermione's heart like a Christmas present, all wrapped up in sparkles and bows, gifting her the hushed quiet of winter. When the snow fell, when the rain became the frost, the world became white again, glistening and glittering in the light.

It was there that Hermione expanded, putting her hands out in front of her, reaching out into the sky with her fingertips. In her mind she cast a spell that was more wish than anything, hoping and praying for the hunger in her soul to be fed. The sunlight was warm on her face, yellowy and translucent, making her skin appear as if it could be the papery-thin makings of a lantern. She felt freed, forgetting for a moment that there was still a sickness inside of her, one that could never truly be cured. Nothing would bring back her friends, her family. It had been hard to forget the way her mother had smelled — fresh flour, toothpaste mint and the strawberry Muggle shampoo that Hermione had thrown straight in the bin when she'd put the house up for sale over the summer. Her childhood home, the place she had lost all her baby teeth, grown all her bones, and wiped the memories of the only family she had in the world. The Grangers had faded into nothingness — there were only the Wilkins now. Daughterless, happy, whole. Alive.

She let out a painful sigh, her lungs icy from the cold. It was two days until the holiday break, and she held in her hand a letter addressed to Mrs. Weasley, containing a piece of parchment that had politely and firmly declined a visit to The Burrow. She had known breaking up with Ron would be breaking up with so much more. The makeshift family she had been accepted into was not really hers. It'd be stupid to think that she could hope to have any nerve to show her face there. She didn't trust herself either, knowing that she may look into bright blue eyes everywhere and think of Ron. _God_ , how that still ached.

Ronald Weasley, Auror, war hero, Quidditch enthusiast, and keeper of a part of her heart that he would never know he possessed. It was just as well. She hung around the wrong lot now, a detail which she was sure Ginny had relayed to the entire Weasley family by now.

"So, friends with Malfoy these days?" Ginny had commented just days ago. There had been no hiding it, not really. Hermione clung to him like plastic wrap, walking so dangerously close to him that sometimes, when no one was looking, he clasped her hand very briefly to give it a reassuring squeeze.

"Professor McGonagall assigned us some tasks," Hermione had said, doing her best to hide her shame. "We've just been working together."

Ginny had looked over Hermione's shoulder, finding Draco waiting for her just yards away.

"I see," she had said, though Hermione was sure that she did not.

"Well, I'll see you in the Prefect meeting tomorrow, then?" Hermione had asked, hoping to end the conversation before it became too hard to lie.

"Yeah," Ginny had said, still distracted by the strangeness of it all. "See you."

Then the fog lifted, and Draco was beside her again, his expression carefully composed as he held all their secrets in his eyes. The haze always seemed to clear when he was near, as if he were the cure to the numbness, the suffering, the misery. They didn't speak much in public, sharing words only when necessary, but it had been impossible to be apart. They had tried, and had lasted all of three hours before Hermione had found herself taking a seat beside him in Advanced Potions. He hadn't looked at her for the entire class, but she had felt him brush his leg against hers and keep it there, his warmth seeping into her. It was a proper friendship, and sometimes when the corridors were empty, it was an improper one. Her mouth burned as she thought of all the times he had pressed her against a wall, kissing her madly as if she herself was desire.

It was good to be wanted, and it mattered so much that she was wanted as she was now, not who she'd once had the potential to be. Ron had wanted an adventure, a wife, a sane person, likely. She was none of those things. It wasn't clear what Draco really wanted it, but what little _was_ clear was that he wanted _her_. Broken, gaunt, nutty her. She was of unsound mind, tumbling through one day after the other, finding footholds in nothingness, until he had come for her and taken her in his arms. There hadn't been any need for footholds after that.

* * *

"Your favorite color."

"Gray," she said without a second thought. "Yours?"

"I have a rather soft spot for pinks. Magenta, fuschia, coral — Granger, stop!" Draco laughed, taking from her hands the book she had grabbed to smack him with. His laughter was always a surprise, like a blessing and a favor and a charity that she accepted greedily and shamelessly. It was such a deep laugh, rich and whole, ringing right through her ears into a place deep in the pit of her stomach where the butterflies flickered, fluttered and rippled through her.

"Seriously," she said, smiling almost stupidly. "I want to know."

"Alright." He leaned back in his chair, absent-mindedly running his hand through his hair, sweeping back sleek platinum-blond hair as she held her breath. He looked so _good_ when he did that.

"Brown," he decided, glancing at her with a funny look in his eye.

" _Brown?_ "

"Brown."

* * *

"How much of this is real?"

Draco pressed his lips to her temple, rubbing her arms to warm her. It was dark on their walk back up to the castle from the Qudditch Pitch. A night of flying — something Hermione would not partake in ever again, no matter how much her fear of heights amused him, and perhaps for that reason alone.

"None of it," he said. "All of it."

He was right.

They were in limbo.

* * *

She was shaking, dizzy with nausea, frozen with an intense pain in her chest. Her heartbeat pounded in her ear, a war drum, louder and louder until all she could do was scream and scream.

"S'okay," she felt him say against her skin. He was holding her, and she could feel it now. His arms, the soft bed, the pillowcase soaked with her tears.

"They don't know who I am," she cried through sobs, deep sobs that hurt her everywhere that she had done so well to keep guarded. Until now.

"They do," he promised, rubbing her back soothingly. "Just a nightmare. Shh."

"They'll never know me," she bawled, detached from the room, from him. "I'm noth- _nothing!"_

"You're everything," he said softly. "Everything."

* * *

Hermione came to a stop in front of the Owlery, the letter to Mrs. Weasley grasped in her hand. She scrunched her nose at the smell of owl droppings and made her way up the stairs, her hands so shaky that she had to use the railing to keep her balance. There was an arctic chill in her lungs, almost unbearable if not for the added warmth of the black cashmere sweater she wore under her robes. It was lending her the strength she desperately needed.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, wiping away hot tears as she tied the letter to one of the school's barn owls. It looked at her for a brief moment, as if it knew all about her sins before it opened its wings and took off.

She was cutting the last of her ties, shedding her old skin for a new one.

"I don't know who I'm supposed to be," she said with a shudder. "But I know who I'm not."

And that much, at least, was true.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:**

 **I have decided to no longer do daily updates. I'm concentrating on writing longer chapters, and the story is starting to become so emotional that it's taking a lot out of me. I need time to mull over everything. I go through about ten different drafts before I settle on the right one. I want to give you quality rather than quantity.**

 **Thank you to all those that have been following my journey. To the guest comments that I can't respond to, I am so grateful and humbled by your words. Keep reviewing, keep sharing your thoughts, and keep making my day :)  
**

 **Thanks again!**

 **-Nora**

* * *

She had thought about jumping.

It was the dead place again, the house that wasn't a home, the out of place bookend that ended exactly where it began, the thing that was everything terrible, like a drug that was both a delicious high and an overdose. It was a cliff, a jagged rock in her throat, a piercing sharpness in her lungs, and she had thought about jumping, had thought about giving up, of falling into the waters until she was all liquid and living in endlessness before dying in it, becoming it, the void, the dead place.

He talked her off the ledge.

With _kisses_. Sweet kisses, warm ones with intoxicating moans, the ones that made her weak and dizzy and divine. She didn't like the way his hands spanned her small waist, didn't like the taste of his hot lips, didn't like his disgustingly beautiful smile, a secret he reserved for only her through his tired eyes and serious, expressionless face. No, she didn't like any of it at all.

She _loved_ it.

She fucking lived for it, fucking consumed it like a strong drink, downing it until she was a drunken, senseless mess. She traced the dark circles beneath his eyes, purplish against his pale skin, like a bruise of his soul, stark against all the white. He was all trouble, a bad and tragic person that could destroy her completely, and it didn't scare her. It was worth jumping over. She'd run to jump a thousand times, and a thousand times he would talk her off the ledge again and again until she was slack in his strong arms again, a gleeful, silly little girl who craved the attention of a Death Eater all while playing pretend that she was all good inside, all purity and light and bullshit.

Her demons and his demons had playdates. It made her believe that dreams were really prophecies and that hope was a sacred and divine human right. She was the bad girl, the tragic girl, the any-day-of-the-week girl. She gave herself to him, shamelessly, happily, immeasurably. Her mind, her body, her sanity, her dead place and recently, her alive place. It was a new place, too. Exclusive.

He stole things from her, moments of a day, full nights, empty classrooms, warm beds, kisses and sex and bad, beautiful thoughts of a future, bleak and dim, but a fucking future. Who would have thought?

* * *

"Visit me," he said, his lips on her neck. "For Christmas."

It was two in the morning and they were in her bed. It was their favorite place for basically everything. Sleeping, studying, talking and… dot, dot, dot.

"No thanks." She had her hands in his hair, her breaths airy and light.

"Not the bloody manor," he said, reading her easily. "I have a flat in London."

She pulled back, her bloodflow slowing at the sight of his lips, flush with color. "Since when?"

"Since the end of the war."

It made sense. A lot had taken place in that manor. She closed off the old memory, the cold floor, the curse. It was getting easier day by day.

"I don't know," she said warily. It'd be like playing house, just the two of them, and the thought was a bit daunting. She had never been so close to a person in her life, but this was a closeness that defined exactly what they had conveniently chosen to leave _un_ defined. This was nothing, and it was everything.

"C'mon," he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead. "We won't have to hide. I could take you out to dinner."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "Like at a Muggle restaurant?"

"Like exactly that," he said with a wolfish grin.

Draco Malfoy at a Nando's with a plate of Peri-Peri wings. Draco Malfoy at a McDonald's with a Big Mac. Draco Malfoy at a Muggle pub, drinking a Muggle beer. Draco Malfoy in a Muggle _anything._

"That's just weird."

"So you'll forgo holiday because it's _weird?_ "

"I didn't say that."

"Fine, stay here and enjoy Christmas in the kitchens with your beloved House Elves."

She punched his arm. "I didn't say I wouldn't go!"

"Then say you will."

"I will."

* * *

"You live _here?_ "

Draco paused, his gray eyes sweeping over the old brownstone building in front of them. "Be grateful it isn't the Knight Bus," he said cheekily.

"Draco, this is a Muggle building."

"I am aware, seeing as how I live here, Granger."

Hermione blushed. "Just you… and Muggles."

"They're alright," he said nervously, clearly embarrassed by his new stance.

She gaped at him. "Who _are_ you?"

"A Muggle sympathizer, it would seem," he said ruefully. "My father'll disown me any day now."

"I think I need to lay down," Hermione said, taking his arm to balance herself. " _Draco!_ "

He lifted her off her feet, carrying her like a bloody bride up the steps and through the dark hallways of the building. Her heart hammered in her chest, dreadfully and wonderfully. She was a girl after all, and in the aftermath of a war all a girl could really do sometimes was dream. Nineteen years old and wanting exactly all the things she had left Ron for just months ago. It was terrible, but she didn't feel so bad about it anymore. She wasn't that person anymore. This Hermione didn't deserve a successful Auror, a fully functioning member of society and above all, a Weasley. This Hermione was a thrill-seeker, a disaster, and naturally that meant that she fit just perfectly with a Malfoy.

So she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs swinging, and laughed softly when he kissed her neck. He unlocked his door with a clever bit of wand-less magic and carried her over the threshold. It was the most frightening thing he could have done, and she loved it. _More_ , she wanted to say. _Give me more._

When he took her straight to bed, his hands gentle and then rough, he did exactly that.

* * *

"You have to stop carrying me everywhere. I'm not a bloody damsel in distress."

"Not my fault you can barely walk half the time," Draco said drily.

She didn't want to give him the wrong idea. He had to understand that she was an independent woman, capable of taking care of herself. He did too much for her, carrying her books between classes, taking over to brush her tangled hair when her arms grew tired, carrying food everywhere in his bag, offering her apples and biscuits and cheese throughout the day like she was some child. It was no matter that some color had returned to her face, that her hair was just a tad shinier than before. The changes were subtle, but Draco caught them all and continued his infuriating behavior in babying her.

"Well, you have to stop," she persisted.

"Fine, fall over and die for all I care."

Hermione laughed. "You're incorrigible."

"Likewise," he said without a beat. "Pass the crisps you cow."

They were settled on his couch, books and snacks around them, enjoying a quiet evening by the fire. Hermione had her feet propped up on his lap and was surprised that he didn't seemed to mind at all. She read him some of her favorites, enjoying especially his interest in Hamlet.

 _"Doubt thou that the stars are fire;_  
 _Doubt thou that the sun doth move;_  
 _Doubt the truth to be a liar;_  
 _But never doubt that I love."_

Draco didn't say anything, just leaned his head back to rest against the couch and closed his eyes as he listened. There were no comments, no interruptions or questions. He was intelligent, understanding without the need for any explanation. Quiet, calm, comforting. That's what Draco Malfoy was. He had made his home inside her heart, and she was not sure if she would ever let him leave. She would sooner break every bone in her body. She would sooner jump off a cliff. She would sooner die.

That's how bad she had it.

* * *

"Muggle food is _delicious_. Fuck."

Draco Malfoy ate everything within a five mile radius. _Everything._

* * *

"What the hell is this?"

Draco Malfoy touched and observed every kitchen appliance at the department store.

* * *

"This is the most boring postcard I've ever seen in my life. Your Muggle pictures don't move."

"Oh, we've got moving pictures."

"What are you talking about? This isn't moving."

"Draco, have you ever heard of a movie?"

"A what?"

Draco Malfoy watched Y _ou've Got Mail_ starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan at the local movie theater.

* * *

They snogged everywhere. The park, the sidewalk, the tube, the restaurants. He was always the one to initiate, pulling her close in crowded places, his hand on the small of her back when they walked, his arm around her shoulders wherever they were seated. He didn't seem to care that Muggles stared, that he was drawing too much attention to them, that she blushed and tried to pull away half the time.

"C'mere you," he would say, tugging her into his arms and giving her such a good fucking kiss that she'd forget the earth itself turned.

It was all too perfect.

She should have known it wouldn't last.

* * *

Draco was seated at the kitchen table, doubled over with his face in his hands.

"This — surely this isn't —" she couldn't finish. The Daily Prophet was on the table in front of her, the front page a picture of them locking lips outside of a Wendy's of all places. There was a to-go bag of burgers in Draco Malfoy's fucking hands.

'War Heroine Hermione Granger Involved With Known Death Eater' the front page read. Fucking Rita Skeeter.

Draco hadn't spoken in ages, likely still frozen in shock.

It was all over.

She wanted to drown, to die just to be rid of this plague, this festering wound in her heart. It didn't matter to her that everyone knew, it didn't matter that she wouldn't be able to look her friends in the eye — it didn't even fucking matter that he was a Death Eater. All that mattered was that their secret was out, their intimacy discovered, and it mattered most of all that he was disappointed. Ashamed of her most likely, ashamed of the Muggle-born, the Mudblood. While he filled her heart to the brim, she filled something else — an empty bed, a fling, a shag. That was all she was. Nothing more.

"I'll go," she said softly. She went to the door and slipped on her shoes, her heart cracking open so loudly that she was sure she could hear it. It was as if Death himself had come for her, looming over her now, ready to destroy her the moment she walked out that door.

Her hand had just touched the doorknob when she felt arms encircle her, pulling her back against a stiff body.

Her hands shook, her eyes watered.

"I should hex you right now," Draco said, his voice seething with such anger that it frightened her. "The gall."

She was trembling, tears flowing, hovering somewhere between heaven and hell. _This._ She hadn't expected this.

"Don't walk out on me." His voice was thick, as if he felt it, too. That wild terror, that insurmountable wave of grief, that harrowing void that pulled them right into the darkness again.

"I'm not worth it," she said through her tears. She was defective, hardly human at all, mostly made up of bones and baggage. He had a family, a future. She would not be his ruin, not when she had nothing to offer him. Nothing but grief.

"I hate you." He turned her around aggressively, his hands gripping her shoulders painfully, and slammed her back hard against the door. She let out a startled gasp, grabbing his forearms to steady herself. He kissed her, impassioned, enraged, heated. "I fucking hate you," he rasped, pulling back.

His eyes were bloodshot red.

She sobbed, hurting everywhere. In her dead place, in her alive place. All in tatters, breaking her down second by second.

"You'd just leave me? Just like that?" He gripped her shirt, lifting her until her feet dangled. He was wild, deranged like an animal.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she cried, her chest aching so badly that she feared he had broken her bones.

He picked her up and she wrapped her legs around him, both of them shaking, both of them overcome with emotion. They shuddered together, little earthquakes, little natural disasters. Her arms clutched him, finding his neck to hold onto for some support — something, anything to ground her.

He looked close to tears. "Am I not good enough for you, Granger?"

 _"_ _I'm_ not good enough." The words came out with an ugly cry, a hideous, disgusting cry that was humiliating and disgraceful.

"You daft, stupid woman," he said, blinking back tears.

"I know," she said between gasps, her lungs rejecting air, her heart rejecting blood, her mind rejecting him for his own good.

And yet she clung to him. He was her air; he was her blood. He was the strength of her arms, the light of her eyes, the keeper of her secrets, her soul, her heart. She hugged him, grinding her teeth to keep from falling apart, but she was already unraveling right into his arms. A part of her _wanted_ to be destroyed, wanted to jump, if only to see if he would talk her off the ledge one more time.

"I'm so sorry," she whimpered. He tightened his hold on her, his muscles flexing. His Dark Mark was hot on her skin, mocking her, daring her to be burned again. She didn't even care.

"I hate that I love you," he told her acidly, his eyes darkening.

She cried and she ached — _Oh, how she ached._

That was all he had to say.

That was all she needed to hear.

That was all she wanted.

"I love you," she sobbed.

He pressed her against the door and made love to her right there — angrily, rough, raw — but it was love.

It always had been.


	11. Chapter 11

_"The world was on fire and no one could save me but you_

 _It's strange what desire will make foolish people do"_

 _"_ Wicked Game" - Chris Isaak

* * *

She was a dreamer.

Dreamt of the long nights, the cozy comforters, the twinkling Christmas lights from the window, the soft haze of his bedroom eyes, darkened with desire — the desire that made her foolish, made her somebody new, somebody reckless and insane and dreadfully, deliciously in love.

It was the in-between, the reality that was so good that it might as well have been a dream. It was the shooting star that became the wish, the wish that became the boy, the boy that became the man; the broken, the beautiful, the devil, the angel of a man. He was the thousand words in every picture. He was her religion, her ruin, her beginning, but not her end. She wouldn't let him be.

They spent every waking and sleeping moment together, tethered and glued with hands, mouths, bodies, sighs. He had become a part of her, perhaps every part, taking up every corner of her mind, his laugh the infectious song of her soul, his smile the very reason she opened her eyes, his hands the reason she even had any sense of touch. He stole it all, stole her, _owned_ her.

And she let him.

"I love you," he'd say, that sweet nothing and that sweet everything, right into her ear. "I love you. I love you. I love you." She'd ask again and again. "I love you," he'd say with a laugh. "I love you," he'd say with a moan. "I love you," he'd say with a sigh, a cry, a everything.

And she loved him. _God_ , how she loved him.

* * *

He held her in the bathtub, the water sloshing, his heady scent swirling beside her and inside her. He was so tall that his feet hung over the edge, his body curving as she curved into it, her nakedness no longer pitiful, no longer making her self-conscious because he kissed it all — every scratch, every burn, every scar. Even the one that she hated the most of all.

"This," he'd said, pressing his mouth to the word that he'd once used against her, the word that had once made her cry. "This isn't you."

"But—"

"If anyone's blood is dirty it's mine."

She hadn't been able to respond, not when the words stuck like molasses in her throat. _But it's still on me, it's still there forever._

Then he'd put his arm next to hers, the Dark Mark black against his pale skin.

"This was my choice," he'd said. "Yours wasn't."

"You didn't have a choice either," she'd said, because she knew him now, knew him much better than she knew herself.

"But I do now. I'm doing all the choosing."

He chose her. Every day, every moment, every second. Over and over.

She discovered him every single day, like a wonderful treasure, learning things about him that made her giddy. No one else knew these things, no one else knew his fears and his guilty pleasures and the things that made him cry. But she knew them, and she would not stop until she knew them all.

"Cold?" He rubbed her arm, slick from the soap.

"Mm," she smiled, deep in her thoughts.

"Let's get you in some warm clothes."

He planted his feet back inside the tub, wrapped an arm around her waist and hoisted them both up. Her legs dangled for a moment before her feet touched the soft bath mat. A towel came over her shoulders, gentle hands wrapping it around her body. They had done this all before, a few times now that they had been together in his flat for a little over a week. It was Christmas Eve, and their time alone together was closing day by day. In a few days it would be 1999 and then they would be returning to school, two adults amongst a sea of children. It felt silly.

Draco slipped into a furry dark bathrobe, cinching the sash around his trim waist, looking good enough to eat with his hair darkened from the water, his body dripping, his skin glowing with a light flush of color.

"Pervert," he said when he caught her eye.

"I wasn't before you," she said, smirking as she dried her hair.

"I've been known to be a very bad influence."

"Very."

He just stood there and watched her as she dried herself, his mouth parted, his eyes glazed over.

"None of that," she said, smacking him with the towel. "We still have to cook the turkey for dinner."

"Fuck the turkey," he said, and lifted her into his arms, carrying her to the bedroom as she laughed and laughed.

* * *

They did eventually get to the turkey.

"I'm starving," Hermione said, stuffing her mouth with crackers to hold her over.

"I still don't see why we can't just use magic."

Hermione blushed. "I don't, er, know how."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Fuck, I don't either."

Funny, out of all the books Hermione had thought to pack in her little beaded bag, a cookbook was not one of them. Mrs. Weasley could feed an army in under twenty minutes. Hermione wasn't even sure if she trusted herself to boil a pot of water, with or without magic. Cleverest witch of her age and she couldn't cook for shit.

"We're going to starve the rest of our lives," he said, reaching over to take a cracker from the box. "You'll never let us buy any place with a House Elf."

Hermione froze mid-chew.

 _The rest of our lives_.

He was a dreamer too.

* * *

It took two hours to effectively burn the turkey.

"Chinese take-out?"

Draco smiled. "More Muggle food?"

"You're so uncultured," Hermione scoffed, grabbing their scarves from the coatrack. She didn't mind when he pushed her, didn't mind when he tugged her arm from her body, didn't even mind that he kissed her against the wall, his deft fingers undressing her.

"Again?" she laughed, pulling back to catch her breath.

"Again."

So it was true. They were probably going to starve the rest of their lives.

* * *

Christmas morning was magic.

For the first time in a long time, someone gifted Hermione books. Not just any old books, but books that she had wanted. First Editions, crinkled and worn, smelling of history and wonder. New texts on subjects that enthralled her, and a few that she had never even heard of.

"You shouldn't have," she said, hugging four of them to her chest.

Draco had his hands in the pockets of his pajama pants. He shrugged, grinning, his teeth perfect, white… _Stop that_. She was trying to teach herself some restraint. Ogling at him all day had made her very unproductive. She hadn't gotten any of her homework or reading done.

"Muggle things," Draco said when he opened his presents. She had gifted him a Swiss army knife, a pocket planner, a very nice electric shaving kit, and… a television.

"We could get cable next time we're here," Hermione said, blushing. It was strange to just invite herself over to his flat, but she was trying to get over it. _Of course_ , he would want her there. Why wouldn't he? He _loooooved_ her.

"You're losing me, Granger," Draco said, his wand settled behind his ear as he looked over the manual. "Muggles make everything so complicated. What the hell is an antenna?"

They spent the afternoon watching the free channels, Draco barking with laugher every time she used the remote.

"They've got their own clunky wand thing!" he laughed, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.

It was true. It was a bit like magic.

It all was.


End file.
